Loosing the Wolves
by SchaerMann30
Summary: A slightly AU version of the series, beginning in 296 AL, and continuing on through the standard timeline of the series, with some minor but notable changes to the canon to fit the story.


_One:__Blood, Smoke and Water_

It was a city of wealth, a city of power, and a city of pride where the narrow sea and the Shining Sea met. The Free City of Braavos was a place of a thousand faces, from brash Westerosi to fierce Dothraki and stranger people besides. It was a city of the sea, where the salty breeze blew and sails from a hundred ships flapped in the wind. The Titan of Braavos rose above the city as a monument to the cities pride and wealth, and watched over the city like a brooding, implacable guardian that forever kept its vigil. Braavos was a city of secrets, and a city of decadence where whispers flew, and arrogant bravos strutted through the streets at night looking for those foolish, or brave, enough to bare steel.

It was spring in Braavos, but the air was cold from the rain that poured down from the dark cloudy night sky. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed across the great Free City and the Titan of Braavos was lit up against the night sky each time the lightning flashed. The Ragman's harbor was full of raucous laughter and the smell of alcohol and smoke this time of night as many drank their fill.

The tavern was a place typical of Braavos, having the name of the Fading Smoke Tavern. It was a place where cheap spirits and questionable food was served in quantity, and where one could buy all the liquor they wished without question. Even in the howling rain and thunder, the tavern was awash with the smell of human filth, smoke, and alcohol as it always was, and the sound of raucous laughter and music emerged from its walls.

Tonight, a woman with a lean lithe build and black hair nursed a single pitcher of ale in a booth slightly sequestered from the center of the tavern. She was no great beauty, but attractive enough with dark olive skin and hard features seen in those who know life's costs. She was content with her own company and had been for most of the night, and several drunken advances had been quietly but firmly turned away with a few words.

A scuffle had caught her attention, and her serene expression never wavered as she watched an arrogant bravo shout out a challenge and draw steel. Soon, the shouts of the crowd filled the air as the bravo and a sailor of Ibbenese descent traded blows, but it soon came to consume the entire tavern as the Ibbenese sailor stumbled into another patron, and the patron struck out. Soon, the shouts of the entire tavern filled the air as many others gleefully joined the fray and the smell of blood, sweat, and excitement filled the air.

The brawl swirled around her, but the woman seemed more amused than concerned as she took a sip of her ale and failed to rise. It took a man stumbling past her and then drunkenly lunging for her with a leering grin on his face to cause her to act. The woman's movements were fast and crisp as she seemed to glide out of her chair. Her knee came up in a blur to strike the man in the groin, and her fist connected with the back of his head to drop him to the ground. Then the woman settled back into her chair, refilled her goblet.

She caught sight of another who held himself aloof from the brawl, and had just seen his own pitcher of spirits get knocked over. A chuckle emerged, and with a lazy movement she grabbed both pitcher and mug. The lithe woman seemed to positively glide through the brawling tavern patrons with little effort, and slid smoothly down into the chair opposite the man. The expression on her face was both amused and curious as she watched the fight and her companion at the same time.

"Can I offer you a drink?" Her voice was quiet and smoky as she spoke.

It was another night, and another payday. After a fairly successful battle against a larger-than-usual band of Dothraki raiders, the troop was back in Braavos again. This particular fellow, a touch shorter and thinner than most in his profession, had relished the payday and the chance to live it up in Braavos, in his own quiet way, of course. After a bit of a party with some of his mates, he'd wandered the city, enjoying the rain which drove certain people indoors, until he came down to Ragman's harbor, where he decided he'd stop in and have a pitcher and a pipe in a bit of warmth for once. The Fading Smoke Tavern was handily available, and he managed to get a pitcher of hot mead and a goblet, which he took to a corner where he could see the room and none could get behind him. Of course, the fellow sitting there wasn't too happy about having to vacate such a prime spot, but he knew the short, lean man in the drab leathers and midnight-blue warrior's cloak standing there, and knew well his reputation, and how well-earned it was, so he left, grumbling something inaudible and inoffensive in tone.

Everything went quite well for quite a while, and then people decided they were going to play a fool's game with one more experienced. The bravo had engaged the Ibbenese sailor, and the instant the brawl broke out, he disappeared through the tavern door, unnoticed by all save the mercenary of and from the Free Cities. He'd filled his goblet and moved it out of line of the pitcher, closer to him while he filled and lit his pipe, and in those short instants of unguarded access to his table, someone crashed over his table, flying in such a way to knock his pitcher on the floor while not spilling a drop from his goblet. Of course, the person came up, looked at the man, with the blue cloak which had the Chimera badge on it with a bloody sword behind it running dexter on the night-blue background, a single star to the sinister and in diamond form, with a tail running exeter and sinister toward the dawn-gold border, and the worn and blackened hilt, grip and quillons of the sword at one hip, and decided to go some other direction. The man smiled thinly, then resumed smoking his pipe.

And now, this girl. Dornish by her looks, but moving like an experienced and blooded warrior. He watched her move to his table, sliding through the tangled mob of fighting drunkards with ease, like an eel slipping through a net, and placing a pitcher and goblet on the table before her, with a question about whether he'd like a drink. He grinned, the smile thin on his lips but warming his eyes, and shook his head, replying, "I've managed to retain a gobletful thus far, lady. Besides, what you're drinking and my beverage are a bit incompatible, as ale and hot mead rarely blend as well as people seem to think on festivals and feast-days, and which those same days invariably prove the truth of regarding my assertion.

"I do welcome the company, however; I feel as if I've been deemed a plague-carrier or leper the way people are avoiding me. However, intro... Dirk left!" he suddenly interrupted himself with, his conversational tone changing instantly to a battle-bark as some drunken lout came in toward the Dornish lass' back, stance completely open and a lack of guard apparent. The wolfish man with the reddish hair and iron-colored eyes acted as he spoke, kicking the open stool off to the side directly at the man's legs and feet as he closed in. Anything to slow him down while the girl reacted as she chose.

Her expression curved into a thin half-smile that matched the amusement in her dark eyes and a quiet, amused chuckle emerged from the woman at his wry comment. Quick hands poured herself a glass of ale. "I suppose I'll brave the plague then." Further words were cut off as the man bellowed out, and the Dornish woman was propelled into motion even as his words washed over her. Quick and slippery as an eel, she seemed to glide out of her chair and whirled towards the man who came towards her with dirk in hand, and his thrust missed by a good bit as she slipped away. The man was caught off guard as he drunkenly stumbled over the stool that he suddenly found in his path, and went sprawling to the ground, but the man merely spat a curse and rushed the Dornish woman with another thrust of his dirk. His hand thrust out, and she seemed like a blur of movement as several things happened at once.

The man grunted suddenly in pain, and the dirk clattered to the ground as his face twisted in surprise and agony. The Dornish woman's expression was cool and composed as her blade slipped from the corpse as it dropped to the ground, and she wiped the slender Braavosi blade on the tunic with practiced ease. It was quick, sudden, and casual as she slid her blade back into its sheath on her left hip.

"It seems I owe you a drink," she acknowledged with another half-smile and her tone was still amused, even after having just killed a man.

"Get the whore and kill her companion! Let's have some fun, boys!" a man shouted suddenly as he saw the woman with her back turned, and then shouts filled the tavern as many of the remaining men suddenly rushed the table where the two sat. Some still brawled, but drunken lust overcame good sense it seemed.

The Dornish woman whirled and slid into the sideways stance of a bravo, rather than the stance one usually saw with a Westerosi, and the slender Braavosi blade came to hand. She didn't spare a glance to her companion as she took a single breath and quelled the fear in her belly. Fear cut deeper than swords, it was said, and that was true. There was no room for hesitation now, and she would not fail to strike.

The woman's face was a cool, composed mask as she faced the rushing crowd of men, and her blade flashed like lightning as the first drunk came in. Now the man who had been her companion saw the woman in action. Her movements were liquid-smooth and swift as a flowing river as her body flowed around her opponents. Thrusts were avoided with precision movement and the woman seemed to glide across a small area as she kept the wall at her back. Her blade was swift as a snake as it flashed and thrust like an extension of her arm and men fell before it. Blades were parried and avoided, and openings exploited with fast strikes. It seemed as if the woman danced in her battle. There was a fierce light in her eyes, and a mask of complete concentration and awareness as corpses fell before the slender Braavosi blade. The man would know her now as one who danced the water dance, one of those who dared to study the highest of Braavosi sword arts.

The mercenary nodded acknowledgment to the Dornish lass, and returned her smile after the brief scuffle, but almost immediately thereafter, drunken idiots decided the Dornish lass was a whore, and that he was easy meat. He vented a disgusted sigh, then, as the first pair rushed him, they were met with daggers flying from the hands of the still-seated mercenary, who took the time in the brief pause before he made his presence known, and showed these bumpkins the fatal error in their judgment, to drain his mead in one long swallow and then he threw the goblet into the skull of the next man in line to try him with such force that both skull and goblet crumpled like parchment.

He stood finally, and the sword at his hip came suddenly and smoothly into his hand, the bright steel gleaming like highly-polished silver even in the dim, smoky light of the tavern. He strode around the table slowly, steadily and purposely, his footfalls silent, and would be even if the tavern were still. A pair of fools came to meet him, while a third began trying to flank around behind him. The flanker was dealt with first, a swift turn and a brutal chopping swing of the sword painting the silver, the wall, and those behind crimson, and as he turned back to the pair on the other side, one of them got in a lucky shot. It cut a long gash on one side of his body, but they realized too late what devil-work they'd unleashed, as the mercenary ignored it, and actually seemed to draw inhuman strength from the wound, and with two lightning strokes, two broken dolls that were once men crashed to the dirt floor, and the Braavosi turned, laughing, to look for more to kill. A seething mob of enemies met his eye, and he waded into them from behind, laying waste to all within reach of his blade, daggers, fist, feet, knees or skull, laughing as the corpse-count grew and the blood splattered everyone and everywhere, painting him into a crimson, laughing demon with the fires of the pits in his eyes, who wounds didn't slow, and actually seemed to strengthen.

Soon, drunk men were sober, and fleeing toward the door, away from the crimson-painted hell-man and his water dancer woman, but were met by the swords, clubs, maces and pikes of the City Watch coming in to break up the disturbance and the fight. Among them were some mercenaries to bolster the ranks and provide skilled fighting hands, and many wore the cloak and device of the Chimera, as did the man who'd come here to have a peaceful, quiet drink and a pipe, and ended up becoming the worst offender of the fight against his will.

And of course, all attempted to point to him and the Dornish lass as the instigators, when he knew full well who the instigator of the mess was, description and identity, but who'd believe him?

The Dornish woman stood, blade flashing, as she whirled and danced in the tavern. A stroke of her blade sent a man reeling, and she pivoted and thrust to catch one who tried to flank her in the gut. Her blade shone with a dim polish even covered in blood, and it was like a striking snake as it caught a man in the neck as he swung a broken bottle at her.

Her dark hair was matted with blood, and a gash from a dirk bled on her cheek. Blood covered the face of the Dornish woman and stained her dark wool clothes. The number of corpses at her feet grew, but still they came and still she carved a bloody swath through the drunks. She was a crimson angel who served the god, Death, it seemed. She fought in silence next to the hell-demon who laughed and bellowed as if it were a great game. The woman was silent to his laughter, but the light in her eyes matched his exactly.

Corpses littered the tavern from the brawl, and the grim work of the two butchers who fought together. Drunk men became sober in the face of servants of Death, and fled with shouts of terror as they tried to avoid their coming doom.

It had been missed in the heat of the fight, but the woman wore a polished steel clasp in the shape of a thorny rose that held her cloak. Even in the dim light, it gleamed with a high sheen. Brown eyes glanced to her companion and the sigil he wore, and then to the mercenaries with the Watch. It was an obvious connection, and she watched the body language of the Watch and the men who reinforced them. There was tension in all of them as they stared upon the blue-cloaked man, and more than one recognized the woman who stood beside him.

Calmly, she wiped off her blade and stayed silent as she sheathed it. The rush of battle thundered through her system, but her expression was collected as she faced the wall of steel. The Dornish woman was no fool, and these were suicidal odds to say the least.

"Gentlemen." Her tone was calm and curt as she faced the members of The Watch.

The leader of the Watch group was a mountain of a man who was bald and rippling with muscle. His expression was stern as he listened to the accusations, and then studied the two before him. "Take them," he rasped finally and waved towards the two, and guards and mercenaries surged forward.  
>The two innocent warriors found themselves stripped of weapons and bound tightly with rope. They were forced out of the tavern and marched into the night even as jeers emerged from inside the tavern. A wall of steel circled them to prevent escape.<p>

"Seems you've finally got trouble," one of the men with the Chimera sigil rasped with a smirk. He'd always had a disdain for the other man, and seeing him carted off was pleasing to say the least.

The bound mercenary shook his head, blood-encrusted red hair swaying slightly, then he replied with bored disdain, disrespect and disgust, "Neros, you've always had less sense than a sow in heat; shut your mouth and keep it shut, or you'll find that your wife will be drawing your final pay. And whichever damned fool has my sword, he'd better treat it with the utmost reverence, because it's worth more than his life and the lives of four generations of his family on both sides combined. I see one nick in the edge that isn't the result of battle and I will personally remove his eyes, hands and tongue with a wooden practice sword."

Having said that, he fell silent and let himself be carried along, down the muddy, water-covered roads, and he realized before the Dornish lass exactly where they were being taken: The Pits, where condemned murderers, rapists, and other unsavory sorts spent their final hours before their executions.

He turned his head once more and looked at the Watch commander, saying, "Gerrad, do you really think that's necessary? I can tell you exactly who started this, which those idiots back there at the tavern were both too scared to mention and too drunk when it occurred to recall. We're neither of us murderers by the law of Braavos or any of the Free Cities, and as both a citizen of Braavos and a man who saved your skin three times in the past 13 years, the first time when we were both younger and more foolish, both mercenaries fighting with King Robert I Baratheon in his uprising against the Targaryens, I demand to see one who has the right of pit and gallows to judge our case according to the laws and the evidence, as is custom and law, even here. Throwing us in The Pits without such is treason and will get you and everyone aiding you hung, as you well know.

"Do any of you think this is a wise idea to waste your lives on the word of half-drunk and scared out of their wits tavern-goers with blood on their own hands and weapons older in this night than either of us or our wounds could bear evidence to support? Did anyone bother to ask the barman in the tavern about what he saw happen, or the serving wenches? No? Then you have no case, and he who has right of pit and gallows will ask these same questions of you, and more beside, and what will happen to your lives and careers after the questioning, I wonder?"

He fell silent again, letting them absorb the full enormity of what they were attempting to do illegally, and kept silent to let them mull matters over.

It wasn't but a second or two after the Braavosi that the Dornish woman made the connection on where they were going. Her expression didn't change, but dark eyes narrowed slightly in thought as a cold feeling settled into her stomach. The Pits were the place for condemned murderers and criminals before death, and considered the closest Braavos could come to the seven hells. She tested her bonds, but they were too tight to break and she lacked a blade to cut them with. Her muscles coiled as she was half dragged and half marched through the mud and rain, and the water stung the gash on her face.

She kept silent as her companion threatened the man who had taunted him, and threatened the one who held his sword. Her eyes flicked to the man who carried her slender blade, and he flinched visibly as her piercing gaze struck him. Her glance went to her sword, and then to him, and the meaning was clear. If her sword was damaged or stolen, he would pay the price.

The Dornish woman struck up her shoulders and held her head high as a queen might, and her expression was grim but defiant as she marched alongside the guards. Words came to her tongue, but she was beaten to it by the Braavosi next to her as he laid out the foolishness of this action and its consequences. Gerrad winced but shook his head. "As may be, we've got our orders and I can't break..." His words were cut off as for the first time the woman spoke.

"You know of my reputation and identity, Captain?" Her voice was quiet and low as she met the man's gaze. Steel-eyed and composed, the woman looked all the regal noble despite being blood-stained and bloody. She was cold, imperious, and commanding as she stepped forward into the man's personal space.

The Watch Captain grimaced at that, he knew full well who the woman was and her reputation. Whoever had arranged this was a fool beyond words and bringing down the wrath of Dorne was a certainty if it happened. He was ordered to arrest one, but another had been caught in the middle. He'd intended to throw her into the cells for the night...

"Then you know the foolishness of this action. Your head on a pike at home would add to its décor, I'm sure. You may have orders, Captain, but there will be consequences beyond even what my companion speaks of." Her voice cold and imperious as she faced the much larger man down without flinching.

"Release us, Captain, or else." She said simply as she faced him down.

Gerrad grimaced and shook his head. It would figure The Steel Rose would get caught in the middle of some asinine plot against a Braavosi mercenary.

"Cut them loose. You two had better be out of the city by dawn, or you'll be hunted like vermin," he spat, but the Watch captain felt nothing but relief as the two were released and given their weapons back. The Watch members and mercenaries whispered as the Captain ordered them off, and they vanished into the night.

The mercenary took his weapon back, ensuring the blade was free of blood and other filth before returning it to it's scabbard, and he looked at Gerrad, and said, "You will stay, and you will personally escort us to the Sealord... now. I don't care if he's asleep, at table, bedding a wench, in council or gambling; you will take us to him, and ensure we are seen. You've just involved yourself, your men and the Chimera in the affairs of none other than King Robert I Baratheon himself, Gerrad, by making this attempt tonight, no matter whose orders they were; in fact, I suggest you make a clean breast of exactly who paid you to involve yourself in this idiocy, and your men with you, and perhaps you'll escape too heavy of a sentence. You've just tried to arrest and illegally execute a knight of the House of Baratheon, ruling House of Westeros, and this matter will be addressed swiftly and the guilty party or parties dealt with at the Lord of Braavos' pleasure. You recall my name, and if you've not lost your memory of the events 13 years back, you'll recall certain deeds of mine and the actions taken by the newly-crowned King Robert to recognize my deeds officially, and reward said deeds appropriately. Do you really wish to involve yourself any further in this by not making a clean and complete breast of what you know, or are you so tired of your head keeping company with your neck that you'll insist upon your silence?"

His eyes bored like ice-hot iron augers into the man, letting him weigh his next words and actions in full, and the consequences of each path presented as an option, while he awaited Gerrad's reply as to his decision.

Gerrad flinched at the verbal castration, and his stomach tightened in fear as the demands were made. He'd gotten himself in the deep end now by agreeing to this farce, and he only hoped he'd make it to see the dawn with his head intact. The huge man just shook his head, and grimaced. He should have retired when he got the chance in Pentos. The mercenary spat and mused at the irony that he'd continued this life out of a fear of boredom, and now it was likely going to kill him off the battlefield.

"Damn you, Stabler, I do remember. Form up, you louts! We'll escort the good Ser and the Lady Sand to the Sealord," he grunted as he stared at the knight with a growing feeling of dread and certainty that he may not make it through the night. The Sealord was not a merciful man, and these two would be considered honored guests. A knight of Baratheon and a noble of the ruling family of Dorne were personages not to be angered or trifled with.

The Dornish woman kept her silence at her companion's rant as she buckled on her sword and drew it. "It seems, good ser, you are more than meets the eye," she noted with a bit of cool amusement as she straightened her shoulders. She inspected the Braavosi blade and nodded as she found no damage had been done.

It was a rapid march as the two were escorted to the Sealord's Palace. The current Sealord was Ferrego Antaryon. He was a man of frail health, but a sharp mind who ruled Braavos with an iron hand. The party was stopped at the gates by the guards, but admitted once the business was known.

The group of mercenaries and Watchmen, Gerrad, Stabler and Sand at their head, marched rapidly through the wide, cold stone halls to the door of the audience hall. There, they were briefly stopped and questioned before being passed through with salutes, a fast lad being sent scurrying to notify the Sealord of the presence of such august personages in his audience chamber, requiring his attention with the utmost urgency.

Despite the urgency, they were left standing and waiting for a half-turn of the glass before the Sealord made his appearance. As he was of such frail health, it was understandable, as was the fact that he was assisted into the hall and to his comfortably-cushioned, high-backed seat by a younger, stronger man who could be trusted utterly; his own son, as it happened, made apparent by the similarities in the appearance and bearing of both men. He seated himself, and fiddled for a few moments, getting himself comfortable in his seat before turning his attention to the pair before him.

"I have heard that both the Lady Sand, whom I see here before me, and a knight of Baratheon were awaiting my pleasure and judgment on a matter of some urgency. However, I do not see a knight of Baratheon anywhere, just a group of mercenaries and Watchmen, with a mercenary standing in a place of honor next to the Princess Martell, instead of behind her as he should be. Why is this, and where is the knight? Somebody will tell me immediately, and explain the impertinence of this mercenary, or his shall be the first head to be greeted by the headsman this night."

Stabler gave a thin smile in reply to the Sealord's characteristic blunt disposition, and bowed, saying, "I am the knight of Baratheon, Lord Antaryon. Forgive my appearance, but I am far from the lands where my knighthood means anything more than a courtesy, and I am only here in Braavos, city of my birth, on some personal business of some urgency, which is nearly concluded, and which I have my liege and King's blessing to attend before I return to him. I do have proofs of my identity, if you would be so lenient as to allow me to bring them forward for your appraisal?"

He pulled a large silver medallion on a thick silver chain from beneath his leathers, removed the chain from it's place around his neck, and offered it to the steward present to deliver to the Sealord's hands, while he unfastened the bloody cloak and let it fall, tugging the leather tunic off to reveal a jupon in the colors of House Baratheon, with the House coat of arms large upon it, and the insignia of a sworn and anointed knight high on the upper left breast, and he asked quietly, but in such a way that all could hear, "If I may approach his Lordship to show the final proofs that I am, in fact, Ser Jasson Stabler, knight of House Baratheon, knighted for valor on the field of battle after the Battle at the Trident during the Rebellion by the King himself upon his crowning after the Battle of King's Landing, and sworn to the service of the King Baratheon himself, by his own word and hand?"

The Sealord was no fool, and he examined the medallion quite closely, before beckoning Stabler forward to examine the jupon he wore to further confirm his knighthood. Once he had done so, he personally placed the medallion back upon Ser Jasson's neck and waved him back to stand with Lady Sand, his eyes glinting like flint in the light of the many cressets flaming about the hall.

All knew by the pregnant pause as the Sealord gathered himself that quite a lot of intense questioning was about to ensue, and there was no doubt that it would encompass many things over the course of the questioning, but his son interrupted smoothly, giving his father a chance and filling the silence with a pertinent question. "Ser Jasson, Lady Sand, might I offer the both of you some refreshment before my father begins his inquiries? I know my father, and he'll talk your throats dry and raw with his questions if you don't have refreshment to aid you in alleviating the matter."

Ser Jasson nodded in the affirmative, and glanced inquiringly to Lady Sand next to him for her response, but said nothing further.

Lady Mara Sand stood in silence as she awaited the Sealord, her facial expression a neutral mask that showed no emotion. Blood covered half her face and had dried to create a crimson hue to her olive skin, and blood stained her dark wool clothes, making her seem a bloody angel rather than a noble bastard of Sunspear. It was half a turn of the glass before he came escorted by his son as shown by the resemblance, but the Bastard of Sunspear did not speak as the Sealord acknowledged them. The revelation of the knighthood to the Sealord was met with further silence from Mara as she looked on with dark eyes and a masked expression.

A chair had been brought for the noble bastard, and she had gratefully sunk into the soft cushions as she waited for the questioning to begin. Once the knight of Baratheon had rejoined them, a chair was brought for him as well. The Sealord looked as if he was ready to begin a rather intense questioning session, but the heir to Braavos spoke to offer refreshments. Mara gave a nod of acknowledgment alongside Ser Jasson Stabler, and watched as a servant was waved to retrieve both light food and drink for the honored guests.

The repast brought for both was a light meal of shellfish glazed in a light lemon sauce and a light fruity wine from the Arbor. Both ate hungrily and quenched their thirst as the Sealord looked on.

Ferrego Antaryon was not a foolish man, and he waited for his guests to quench hunger and thirst even though the Sealord was anxious, and more than a little curious to see what brought such unusual guests to his quarters in this forsaken hour.

"What brings such guests to my quarters in this hour? I was told little beyond that it was a situation of urgency, Lady Sand and Ser Jasson." His voice was stern, but held a trace of curiosity as he spoke when they finished.

Ser Jasson looked to Mara, and at her silent glance and nod, he took up the task of answering His Lordship's question. "My lord, it's a matter of illegal arrest and attempted imprisonment of myself and Lady Sand in The Pits without those making the arrest and attempted imprisonment having the right to do so. Lady Sand and I were forced to engage in a battle in the Fading Smoke Tavern down at Ragman's harbor not that long distant, and in the process, though we were originally in no way involved, we had to slay quite a few who were attempting to kill me and rape Lady Sand, thinking her a harlot at work in their drunken, lust-filled befuddlement. As it all ended, Watch Commander Gerrad her and the rest of the men present, including those of the Chimera mercenary band, came in, and from their actions and words, they clearly had the intention of arresting and quietly disposing of me without your knowledge, and on the orders and pay of someone who wishes me dead, but whose identity is at present unknown to myself. Lady Sand was taken because she got caught up in the fight alongside me, and blamed by panicked, half-drunk and terror-stricken tavern patrons who placed the blame, unjustly as it happens, on our shoulders for the mess in the tavern, and gave them the excuse they needed to take me into custody, with her ending up coming along as a direct result of the accusations.

"Lady Sand and I wish you to question these men and determine who was responsible for this treasonous, illegal activity, and exact justice as Your Lordship sees fit and proper based upon the merits or lack thereof of any and every man involved in this conspiracy. We also request that Watch Commander Gerrad be excused of any wrongdoing, as he has admitted freely, and we believe honestly, that he desired no portion of this night's happenings, but was forced into it by someone with power and influence who could ruin him and have him killed with a word in the right ear. It would have to be someone close to Your Lordship for such a thing to be true, and we ask that if you find this person, that you punish them as you see fit and proper for the offense."

He stopped speaking, having pleaded their case as he was able, with Lady Sand nodding silent agreement at various points throughout the recitation. The Sealord mulled all of this over silently for several long moments, and began firing pointed questions at those mercenaries and Watchmen present, questioning each of them on various points, and spending many minutes getting information from Gerrad, before he stopped and looked at his seneschal, saying, "Have Lord Daryth Almyrr arrested and imprisoned here, as well as Commanders Lorgrin and Vasilith of the Chimera, those two men from the Chimera, those three Watchmen, and Lord Commander Bartrand Fadrin of the City Watch. Their crimes are conspiracy, treason, attempted murder, attempted warmongering with allied nations, wrongful arrest and illegal attempted imprisonment. The sentence for all of them is death by beheading. Watch Commander Gerrad is hereby cleared of any wrongdoing in this matter, and for his complete, accurate and full accounting of the entirety of the night's events, he is commended and promoted to District Commander of the Watch, but he is also placed under a probationary period as a warning and guard against further wrongdoing and corruption such as occurred this night.

"You are getting such a light sentence, Commander Gerrad, because I find the evidence sufficient to verify the validity of the claims about you made by our honored guests. Do not misuse or relapse in your judgment again; these good people will not be around to vouch for you in the future."

He waved his hand in dismissal to Gerrad, gave a courteous bow to Lady Sand, and a warrior's salute to Ser Jasson before he concluded, "I believe our business here is done for this night. I am going to return to my bed. Thank you both for bringing this matter to my attention, and please join me for supper tomorrow night as guests of honor at my high table."

He held out a hand to his son, and slowly made his way out of first the chair, then the hall, and Ser Jasson and Lady Mara Sand made their way out of the Palace and then went their separate ways for the rest of the night, with courteous gestures to each other in parting.


End file.
